Kitchen Confessions
by thrillofthechase
Summary: One day during John and Sherlock's daily fights John does something unexpected; he kisses Sherlock, and Sherlock leaves. Now John needs to fix it, but how he doesn't really know. A one-shot


_Ok, this is my first Sherlock story, and it's a short one. It was just something I wanted to get out of my head and onto paper and now, somehow, it ended up here. It's basically a one-shot about a quite serious confession and it takes place some months after "The Reichenbach Fall" and since there is no canon stuff about that period yet I just made some up :P Hope you enjoy! _

**Kitchen Confessions **

He didn't know why he did it, really. Or, well, he knew _why: _because he had wanted to for so long, but why now? What had been so different about this particular time? What had been so special about that daily argument that had made him do it? He'd thought about it before, certainly, and had even been close to going through with it several times. Today though, he had actually done it. He had followed his instinct and he had kissed _Sherlock Holmes. _And boy did he regret it. To be fair it could barely have counted as a real kiss since he had realized what the hell he was doing before their lips had done much more than graze and had backed off. And then Sherlock had walked out of the flat.

John was looking at the same spot he had been staring at for the past couple of hours, ever since Sherlock had left. The scull on the mantelpiece, that had always reminded him of something out if an Indiana Jones movie, was staring at him with hollow, accusing eyes.

"You idiot," it was saying, and for some reason it sounded disturbingly much like Lestrade. "You are a complete idiot. What in the name of God were you thinking?" John let his head fall into his hands and sighed in frustration. The Lestrade-sounding scull was right, after all; he was an idiot. What had he been thinking, doing that to Sherlock? To himself? Wasn't he supposed to be, if not the clever one (because honestly, he would never win that contest), then at least the most levelheaded one? While Sherlock ran around being impulsive and not caring about any consequences he, John, was supposed to be cautious and think things through. What the hell happened to that?

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the door downstairs open and slam closed. It wasn't until he heard someone walk into the room behind him that he looked up from his hands. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, coat on and his violin clasped in his hand, looking at his shoes silently. For a second John considered running past Sherlock and out of the door, anything to prolong the inevitable conversation awaiting, but thought better of it. Maybe he wasn't as calm and sensible as he might have thought before all of this happened, but he wasn't a coward. He had been in Afghanistan and he could handle an awkward conversation, damn it! He cleared his throat and stood up to face Sherlock properly.

"You been playing in the street?" he asked, nodding toward the violin in Sherlock's hand. He looked down at it in confusion, as if he had forgotten he was holding it and then looked at John. Or, rather, a spot somewhere above John's head.

"It helps me think," he said simply. John nodded.

"Yes, I know. Earn any money?" he asked. Sherlock stood silent for a moment and then walked past John into the kitchen.

"Some people who couldn't understand by the melancholy piece I was playing that I didn't want to be disturbed threw money at me. As if I would ever pick up anything of that little importance off the streets of a polluted and littered city like London. Some people even had the audacity to request songs," he said in annoyance as he took several glass jars with questionable content out of the fridge. John had followed him into the kitchen and now stood rested against the wall, watching as Sherlock bustled about the room.

"You didn't take it then, the money?" he asked but Sherlock either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him because he didn't answer. "Shame," John continued then, "we could have used it for rent." When Sherlock still didn't respond he grew silent as well. He felt like Sherlock should be the one to say something about what had happened, tell him off, throw one of his jars at him, tell him to bugger off out of the flat, anything. He didn't. When it came to Sherlock, though, maybe that was to be expected. _Well, I suppose I have to start then, _he thought and pushed himself from the wall.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," he said. He waited one second... two seconds... five seconds... nothing. "Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John asked when Sherlock didn't even look up from what he was doing.

"What?" he asked as he poured a brown, foul-smelling liquid into the sink, still not looking up from his task.

"I _said_ I'm sorry," John said, a little louder than necessary to make sure that Sherlock really heard him.

"About what?" John stared at him.

"_About what? _You know what, Sherlock! About- about what happened before. When we were fighting" Sherlock stopped what he was doing for a second, back turned against John, but then he continued emptying out the same brown liquid.

"John, I have no idea what you are talking about. Now will you please go away so I can concentrate?" Since John knew how Sherlock was and had learnt how to deal with it so he tried to take a moment and calm down the bubble of fury that was rising in his stomach. However, since his calm seemed to have evaporated completely that day, he couldn't quite keep it down.

"Sherlock, you are the brightest person I have ever met," John pressed out, his voice practically vibrating with the force it took to not sound as angry as he was. "Now, did you fall on your head and knock out half of your brain cells or are you just being intentionally dense?" he almost shouted. Sherlock stopped again, still with his back against John, and gave a small cough.

"I don't-"

"THE KISS!" John bellowed and Sherlock dropped a newly emptied jar on the floor. Thankfully it didn't break but simply rolled in under the kitchen table as Sherlock finally turned around toward John. "There, you made me say it! Are you happy now? That's what I'm sorry about. I shouldn't have done that, it was- it was stupid of me and I- I'm sorry." There was a pause where the two men just stood and looked at each other. John was breathing heavily and Sherlock's eyes were wider than John had ever seen them, but then he blinked twice, like he had gotten something in his eyes and turned them away from John. He coughed again.

"Well, you don't need to apologize," Sherlock said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor by John's feet. John stared at him in silence. _I don't need to apologize? What does that mean? Because it sounds like- _"In my opinion it was a very innovative and efficient way to silence someone. I'm surprised I didn't come up with it myself. However, in the future I advice you not to interrupt me when I'm right, which as you must know by now, is most of the time." _Never mind. _John didn't know what to do. There was no way that that was the most reasonable conclusion Sherlock could come up with after four hours of violin playing, even with people throwing coins at him. So then why was he acting like this? John took a small step forward, trying and failing to get Sherlock to actually look at him.

"Sherlock, that's- that wasn't why I…" John said carefully. This was _so _not turning out the way he had thought. Why did Sherlock have to be so damn complicated? He stood trying to figure out a way to convey to Sherlock why he had kissed him when Sherlock put the last empty jar on the counter and started walking past John.

"John, I thought we just established that I am the one who is right more often than not. Now I have to be somewhere-"

"Sherlock, I love you!" _Whoa, not what I was going for, mouth! _

No one had spoken for probably a minute. Six cars and two busses or lorries had gone by their house out on the street and the clock on the wall had struck 3. John was still staring into the kitchen and it sounded like Sherlock had stopped somewhere in the living room. John's head was spinning. Had he really just said that _out loud_? There really must be something wrong with him today. Maybe he was coming down with a severe and very odd case of the flue... In any case, he needed to say something soon to fix this mess he had created. Any second now he was going to say something, or at least turn around. He was going to do that right now. Right now. _This has to be the swine flue or something... _He took a deep breath, letting the air slowly fill his lunges, and then with a quick and powerful exhale he turned around. Sherlock was still standing faced away from him, the back of his neck pinkish below the dark curled that rested there. His hands were clenched into fists by his sides and from this angle it almost looked like he was angry. Then again, maybe he was. John had never felt so guilty in his life. Why did he have to go and ruin everything?

"Sherlock, I-"

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock interrupted firmly and John stopped short, confused as to what he was talking about.

"What? What is ridiculous?" he asked, praying that Sherlock would at least turn around so he could try and understand what he was feeling. Sherlock cleared his throat and when he spoke it almost sounded like there was a quiver in the normally so smooth and controlled voice of his.

"That. That you said you- that you lo- it's ridiculous."

"What do you mean 'it's ridiculous'? I bloody well know what I feel myself," John bit off.

"You don't- you don't _love me,_" Sherlock answered and this time the shake in his voice was clear. "You're just going through abstinence because you haven't had a girlfriend for a couple of days. You attach yourself to the closest thing- "

"Sherlock, I haven't had a girlfriend for months-"

"-You see it all the time in the animal kingdom and you are just imagining things-"

"-and that is not at all what this is about so if you would please just-"

"-maybe you should stop writing that stupid blog of yours-"

"SHERLOCK WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST LOOK AT ME!"

John should probably stop having arbitrary burst of anger in a delicate situation like this, but Sherlock was just being so _frustrating_. It had been as if the angry bubble in his stomach had floated up through his throat and pushed its way out. But Sherlock did turn around. His hands were clutched into even harder fists than before and it took him several seconds to lift his eyes from the floor but finally he look at John. His face was unreadable, a storm of emotions kept under a blanket of calm, but just the sight of his breathtaking blue eyes made John relax just a bit more. Only a tiny bit though.

"I'm sorry that I shouted," he said and he found that he had to force the words through his closed up throat and cleared it softly. "I'm sorry about a lot of things I've done today. I shouldn't have- have ambushed you like that… But you're wrong. I do love you, and I'm sorry I shouted that as well, and I don't love you because of abstinence or whatever preposterous explanation you were suggesting. I love you because... Well, because I just do." He cleared his throat again. "So there."

Sherlock was still just looking at him, not saying a word and face still as unreadable. John didn't know what to do with himself or the situation. On one hand he wanted to step forward and shake Sherlock to make him understand that he was being serious and on the other hand he wanted to run out of the flat and enlist in the witness protection program in Albania or something, but somehow he felt like neither of the options were appropriate for the situation.

"Feel free to -eh- storm out, or at least _say _something, so I know where we stand," he said instead, but he said it more to his shoes than to the man in front of him. He glanced up in time to see Sherlock roll his eyes with a dignified huff.

"I don't _storm out,_" he said like that was the most preposterous insult he had ever received and John could only just contain a chuckle. It was just so Sherlock.

"You did just a few hours ago," he said and, for a moment, the tension that had been hanging over them eased up a bit. John could almost swear he even saw a twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth, but then he sighed and his face fell once more.

"John, I... I know that I'm not always up to speed with human emotions," _You could say that again. _"but you _don't _love me. I promise you that," he said with force and John once again felt the urge to shake him.

"And I promise _you _that I do. Now, you don't have to like it and I can pack my things and be out of here tonight, but I do love you."

Sherlock dragged a hand over his face as John had seen him do so many times when he was frustrated and right now he wanted to do the same.

"Listen to me, John, you don't."

"_Yes_, I do."

"_No_, you _don't_."

"I'm not playing this game with you, Sherlock! I said I love you and I do!" They were both shouting now and while it was not very mature or productive, neither of them seemed to be able to stop.

"No, you don't! You don't!" Sherlock screamed, taking a step closer.

"Would you stop it? Yes, I do! I. Love. You." John punctuated each word with taking a small step toward Sherlock.

"No. You. Don't!"

"Yes I do! Why is it so difficult for you to understand that?"

"Because nobody loves me!"

They both froze, the impact of what Sherlock had just said hitting them hard. Without realizing it they had stepped so close to each other that John could feel Sherlock's breathing lingering on his face. Was that really what Sherlock thought? That nobody loved him? John didn't know what to respond to it and all he could manage to press out was a breathy "What?" that made Sherlock blink. He looked away from John and took a step back and John wanted nothing more then to follow, to make Sherlock understand that what he was saying was wrong. But he didn't.

"Yes, well... I suppose Mycroft has some gene-obligation to at least be protective of me, something you have gotten to see first hand. Other than that..." Sherlock broke off with a noncommittal wave of his hand and turned around and started walking toward the door. It took John a second to register that Sherlock was leaving, but then he leaped forward and grabbed his arm before he could reach the stairs. Sherlock feebly tried to shake him off but gave up rather quickly and spun around in frustration.

"What is it, John?" he asked with a sigh and John carefully let go of his sleeve, as if he were afraid that he would run away if he moved to quickly.

"You're wrong," he said and Sherlock let out an annoyed grunt that sounded almost like a growl.

"John, I think that during the time that we have known each other and especially today, we have established that that is not very likely. Agreed?" he said with a raised eyebrow and John actually chuckled, making Sherlock's eyebrow climb even farther.

"Agreed. I-I agree fully. Unfortunately for your track record, however, this is the exception of the rule," he said with a wry smile. He paused then, making an effort to think through what he was going to say next. He needed to make it clear to Sherlock how very wrong he was, and he needed to make sure he did it properly. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he actually found something to say but pulled himself together in case Sherlock would get bored and try to leave again. It really was like dealing with a child sometimes. "I know you have been lonely and- and misunderstood for a long time. I was lonely too. You know that. But then I met you. And you were the most... the most annoying know-it-all I had ever met in my entire life and..." he laughed softly, "it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I know you think that nobody understands you, and maybe they -we- don't, but that doesn't mean that nobody cares about you, Sherlock. And it's not just me, you are surrounded by people who love you and want the best for you." At this, Sherlock snorted in disbelief and John sighed inwardly. Why was this so hard to get through? "I'm serious!" he said venerably. "Mrs. Hudson would adopt you as her son in a heartbeat if you would let her. Lestrade may be almost as stubborn as you, but when he thought you were gone he was devastated. And Mycroft is just as bad with emotions as you but you are his brother and he loves you. And then there's me." Sherlock seemed to stiffen up at his last words and John took a deep breath to see if he would say anything, but he didn't, so John figured he should continue. "Then there's me... I don't know how to make you understand that I feel… what I feel… You're my best friend and despite how much we fight and how stubborn we are, because I know that I'm no saint either, and despite that you took the larger bedroom when we moved back in here after you… Despite all that, I know for sure that I do, in fact, love you.

"When I thought- when we all thought you were..." John hesitated, the word still hard to get out after so many moths of pain. "that you were dead, I was… That's when I knew. I knew because when I thought of all the things I had never gotten a chance to tell you, that was the one that I regretted the most not saying when I had the chance. So don't say that nobody loves you, Sherlock, because it's not true. Not at all."

When John finished speaking, he was out of breath and close to tears. Sherlock was staring at him with a hard look and John held his breath in waiting for a slap or yelling. But then, in a heartbeat, Sherlock's eyes softened and suddenly, without John realizing how it had happened, Sherlock was kissing him. Initially he got so surprised that he almost pulled away, but then he realized that Sherlock was _actually_ kissing him. _Voluntarily_. And then he kissed back instead, and there was no talk of grazing lips this time. This time it was tongue and harsh breaths and Sherlock backing John into the kitchen until he hit the kitchen counter and _ohmygodwhathowohgodIcan'tfeelmylegs _and amazing. This was nothing like kissing Shannon or Janine or anyone he could recall kissing ever. _Well, if this is the reward you get for holding cheesy speeches I should maybe become more politically active, _John thought as their bodies and lips moved together, making his head spin in the best way possible. John let his hands travel up Sherlock's sides to the back of his neck and grabbed onto his hair to have _something_ to hold on to and Sherlock's hands were resting low on his hips, somehow pressing him against the counter and pulling him against himself at the same time and how could his tongue even do tha-

"Boys, there seemed to be more shouting than usual, is everything – oh!"

The two men flew apart as if someone had given them both an electric shock and looked around to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the door to the kitchen. She was wearing a flowery apron that had patches of something that looked like flour all over it and to John's surprise she was also wearing a big smile on her face. He opened his mouth to explain, how he didn't really know, but Mrs. Hudson beat him to it.

"753 days," she said in a reprimanding manner that did not at all match her still bright smile. John and Sherlock shared equally confused looks but then John noticed how red Sherlock's lips were and he quickly looked away. _There's a time and a place, Watson, and this isn't it. _

"753 days what, if I might ask, Mrs. Hudson?" John said instead, his eyes now pointedly directed at her and definitely away from Sherlock's face.

"Well," she said and walked swiftly in to the kitchen and placed herself on a chair, making both men turn around to keep her in sight. "It took 753 days, and one faked death might I add," she said the second bit with a sharp glance in Sherlock's direction, "for the two of you to get together." Both men, still standing in the middle of the kitchen staring down at Mrs. Hudson, had been stunned into momentary silence. Had Mrs. Hudson, of all people, known about them? How was that possible? There hadn't been a _them_ until about five minutes ago!

"You knew?" John asked.

"And you kept count?" Sherlock added. Mrs. Hudson giggled and crossed her arms in a rather satisfied way.

"Of course I knew. Everybody knew. Well, maybe apart from Mollie, but I think the poor girl was just a bit in denial. And yes, I did keep count. When you're my age you'll find there are far more hours in a day than needed so I've been counting the days since you boys moved in here in the calendar I have in the kitchen."

"There's a calendar in your kitchen?" John asked, surprised. During all the times he had been in their landlady's kitchen he had never noticed a calendar. He turned to Sherlock, who looked as astonished as him. "How did _you _of all people not know about this?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a small glare that John simply took with a raised eyebrow.

"John, please," he said with an annoyed tone. "Of course I know there is a calendar in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. If I am not mistaken it contains different constellations of baked goods," he looked at Mrs. Hudson for confirmation and she nodded happily. "However, not even my brilliant brain could have made the assumption that that was what it was for. There was simply no evidence for me to deduct that kind of information."

"Oh," John exhaled simply and with a joint sigh they both sank down on two of the remaining chairs on either side of the kitchen table. John felt like he'd just run a marathon and all he really wanted to do was to lock himself in his bedroom and go to sleep. Maybe he could have a dream similar to today only Mrs. Hudson had continued baking like she normally does when him and Sherlock fight. That would be nice.

"But Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said carefully and John thought he sounded just as tired as he himself felt. "Now that you know, are you not going to…" his voice drifted off and John noticed the same quiver in his voice that he had picked up on earlier that day. Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock with earnest eyes and gave him a soft smile.

"Not going to what? Yell at you? Throw you out?" she asked and they both nodded.

"Something like that" John said and Sherlock hummed in agreement. She looked between the two of them and then she snorted, something that made them both jump.

"Oh boys," she said and took both their hands. "If I can go along with Sherlock keeping body parts in the fridge and serial killers running about the house from time to time, I think I can handle this," she placed their hands together in the middle of the table and patted them fondly. "Now, why don't I make us some tea," and with that she left the table and went to put on the kettle. John and Sherlock remained by the table, both looking at their linked hands on the wooden surface between them. In a way it felt strange to be connected in that way, but it also felt right in a way that John couldn't even put into words. Sherlock experimentally stroked his thumb across the back of John's hand and slowly they looked up at each other. John liked to think that Sherlock looked even more confused by the whole situation than himself and he was probably right. But then Sherlock suddenly smiled and chuckled breathlessly, which made John's stomach flip-flop in a very uncharacteristic matter.

"Well… Who knew that old Mrs. Hudson had such refined observational skills?" he said and winked at John as Mrs. Hudson scowled at him because he shouldn't think that just because she wasn't sitting at the table it was all right to call her old and John smiled back at him.

Who indeed?

**_So there you have it! Comments and constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated *wink wink*. I'm thinking about posting a story about when Sherlock reveals to John that he isn't dead, so if you guys like this, let me know! _**


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